


Taken for a Tumble

by HugeAlienPie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Ficlet Collection, Future Fic, Ghosts, Gift Giving, M/M, Magical Danny Mahealani, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Post-Canon, San Francisco Giants, Season/Series 02, Sex Positions, World Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets originally posted on tumblr, or a troupe of polyamorous acrobats? YOU DECIDE.</p><p>(Actually, no. It's just ficlets. The other thing sounds pretty good, though, right?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stanny: We Will Always Write it Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, wow, you swing for a _really_ different team.

"Hey, Danny?"

Danny looked over. Stiles was biting his nail. Never a good sign. “Yeah?”

"Okay, so this is—and I heard this, like, third-hand, from Scott, so I know it’s maybe not—anyway, when you and Ethan broke up, did you really say, ‘Dude, it’s Beacon Hills’?"

Danny closed his eyes. The gentle bustle of the library washed over him. So many threads he could follow, but he released them in favor of an unpassable physics midterm and a guy who was barely a friend. “Yeah. Problem?” He shouldn’t ask. Stiles was smart. If anyone could piece it together, it would be either Stiles or Lydia—and most days Danny thought Lydia was already on to him anyway.

"It’s just." Stiles shrugged. "Kind of a weird thing to say, isn’t it?"

Danny cocked an eyebrow that was much sassier than he felt. “Thanks,” he said dryly.

"I mean—" Stiles shifted violently in his chair, the wood creaking alarmingly beneath the exuberant motion. "I mean, why not, ‘Dude, Stilinski and McCall don’t know how to whisper,’ or, ‘Dude, your eyes turn red while we’re boning’?"

"Stiles!" Danny whacked his arm. "They did not!"

Stiles shook his head dismissively. “You specifically mention the town, and it’s like—and, and your paper about Telluric currents—”

"Don’t think I’ve forgotten you stole that while I was near death in a hospital bed and made me think I dreamed it."

Stiles gave a shit-eating grin and blushed to the tips of his ears. “Ah, yeah.” His gaze turned calculating, and Danny cursed inwardly, realizing there’d be no distracting Stiles out of this one.

So Danny closed his physics text, turned to face Stiles fully, and said, “When we moved here from Hawaii, I begged my family to skip it. I wanted any other job, or no job. I was 10, and I was so done with life on the sidelines.” Stiles was squinting, trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces. “My grandmother looked me in the eye and said, ‘These things are in the blood. Argents will hunt; Stilinskis will protect—” Stiles squeaked. “—Mahealanis will write it down.” He took a deep breath and looked at his hands. They were shaking, but he felt lighter. Like sharing his secret with Stiles made it easier to keep. “I’ve done pretty much nothing for the past seven years but play lacrosse, hang out with Jackson, and record the supernatural events of Beacon Hills. Did you think I wouldn’t notice my best friend becoming a kanima or half the lacrosse team turning into werewolves?”

Danny had never pictured this scenario, exactly, but if he had, he wouldn’t have imagined it ending with Stiles Stilinski punching in him in the arm. Hard. “You fucker!” he hissed. “All this time you _knew_ ; you’ve been _recording_ —people have _died_ , Danny, do you get that? Erica, Boyd, so many of my dad’s deputies, Heather, Allison, Aiden—Christ, you let your boyfriend’s twin brother die—”

"Hey, I didn’t _let_ anyone—”

"You know things! Things that could’ve helped us fight the things that keep trying to kill us—and doing a pretty great job at it, just, FYI."

"Stiles, I _can’t_.” Danny’s fingers dug into Stiles’ arm as he willed him to understand. “Not, like, I won’t, or I’m not supposed to. We’re bound by a lot of really fucking old magic, all right, and there are things I literally can’t say. Sound wouldn’t come out of my mouth.”

Stiles rubbed his face furiously. “Okay, fine, whatever. But from now on, Danny, no secrets, all right? Whatever you can tell the pack, you will. If I find out you’re holding out on us, I’m standing under your window at three a.m. singing Polish folk songs, I’m not even joking. And don’t think we won’t be discussing this ‘Stilinskis will protect’ thing later.”

Danny considered and then nodded. He knew he was skirting a major line in his vows of neutrality, a line he’d already come far too close to by dating Ethan. But it felt right, helping his classmates survive this town. Which was a lot harder than it looked. “Deal. But you can’t push me, okay? If I say I can’t tell you something, I mean I _can’t_.” When Stiles nodded, Danny put his hand out to shake, and of course he noticed how Stiles let his hand linger. Danny had a lot of reasons to be grateful when Stiles stood immediately after and packed up his stuff.

"Hey, Danny," he called again, softly, fiddling with his backpack strap. Danny looked up and back at him. "I mean, what are you, man?"

There wasn’t word for it. ‘Bard’ came closest but wasn’t anywhere near enough. Maybe someday he’d take the time to explain it to Stiles. He thought Stiles would get it. At this moment, all he could see was Allison’s coffin sinking into the ground, and all he could hear was Ethan’s sobs as he dug Aiden’s grave with his claws. “Mostly,” he admitted, “I’m really tired.”

Stiles snorted, and for one perfect minute his hand squeezed, heavy and grounding and real, on Danny’s shoulder. He muttered, “Ain’t that the fucking truth,” and then Danny was as alone as he ever got, listening as the stories swirled around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that one line of Danny's at the end of 3B and originally posted [here](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/84414338700/we-will-always-write-it-down).


	2. Stanny: The Bumptious Solar Goat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human bodies just don't bend that way, Stiles.

Danny stares with growing horror where Stiles’ finger points at his laptop screen. Perched on Danny’s desk chair, Stiles practically vibrates with the effort of keeping himself in check. “—and I’m plenty flexible, because Coach gave me these special stretches—”  
  
Danny chokes. “You talked to _Coach_ about this?”  
  
Stiles flails so hard he almost pitches off the chair. “Ewww, no! I told him it’s for lacrosse. So I can be more limber for games.” Stiles bites his lip and looks up at Danny from under those damned eyelashes. “What d’you think? Could be fun, right?”  
  
 _Fun_. That’s one word for it. Danny takes both of Stiles’ hands in his. “Yeah, it could, only, Stiles, I don’t think—” Why is this so hard? Danny’s the one with more experience here. But Stiles’ depthless affection, boundless enthusiasm, and seemingly infinite spreadsheet of “Things to Try with Dudes” make Danny feel like the fumbling virgin half the time. “Don’t move, okay?” He squeezes Stiles’ hands and runs from the room.  
  
From her sprawled-out position on the floor, Kimmy yells when Danny bursts into her room. Papers fly everywhere. “Knock first, jerk!” she snaps. “I could’ve had a guy in here. Or I could’ve been masturbating.”  
  
Not sparing his sister a glance, Danny crosses to her bookcase and pulls down both posable wooden artists’ models. “Kind of doubt I would’ve noticed either one,” he admits.  
  
Indignation forgotten, Kimmy leans forward, eyes bright and avid. “Ooh! I didn’t hear Stiles come in!”  
  
"Kimmy," he growls, warning.  
  
"Is it really awful this time?" she asks, and Danny has to give her credit for the genuine concern beneath her prurient interest.  
  
Danny’s shoulders slump, and his forehead thumps against the door. “It’s called the ‘bumptious solar goat,’ Kimmy,” he groans. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” Stiles, for all his hyperactivity, has the most orderly mind Danny’s ever encountered. But he could drive a tank through Stiles’ blind spot about the human body’s physical limitations, as though he’s trying to will the laws of physics and geometry to suspend themselves for sex.  
  
Kimmy cackles and points at the wooden figures in Danny’s hand. “I’m getting you your own set for your birthday,” she tells him. “Please de-perv those before you bring them back.”  
  
"If Lahey ever comes back from France," Danny says, "I’m punching him in his trolling face." He sighs, rights himself, and prepares to explain to his sure-to-be-heartbroken boyfriend why the human body cannot accommodate the bumptious solar goat.  
  
Stiles perks up when Danny comes into the room, then deflates when he sees what he’s carrying. “Seriously?” It’s not the first time they’ve resorted to visual aids. Danny watches in fascination as Stiles’ eyes flicker back and forth, working out the flaw in the position. At last he groans and turns to his laptop, furiously striking out the entry and typing a note that Danny respectfully refrains from reading. He grins ruefully. “Sorry.”  
  
Danny leans down to kiss him, rests his free hand at the juncture of Stiles’ shoulder and neck. “Nothing to apologize for,” he says, holding Stiles’ gaze until Stiles believes him. “It would’ve been super hot.” Grinning, Danny drops into Stiles’ lap and spins the chair so it’s facing the laptop again. Stiles laughs and wraps his arms around Danny’s waist. “So, come on,” Danny says, “what else you got on this list?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat inspired by the infamous ["bathroom wall scene"](http://orlandoweekly.com/arts/visual/sex-criminals-volume-1-one-weird-trick-1.1697439%22) in _Sex Criminals_ and originally posted [here.](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/91948149009/stanny-headcanon-although-dannys-been-with-more-guys)


	3. C/C: Every Hour at Quarter Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shoot well for a guy who repairs player pianos for a living.

Phil stared into the guts of the machine in front of him, feeling the closest he ever came to despair. He could wield alien weapons on first sight and disarm HYDRA’s most advanced bomb in under ten seconds, but this…

Phil had to admit: the Prohibition reenactment was an excellent cover. Corny but effective, unexpected and slightly whimsical. The sort of thing he might come up with, if he were a gun runner instead of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

Phil could admire it and still be pissed that it left him trying to figure out where to place surveillance equipment inside a player piano.

"Hey, there." Phil froze at the voice behind him. It sounded friendly on the surface, but with an edge beneath, as if the man attached were fighting against anger. "If you want to know how the piano works, I give demos every hour at quarter past. No call to take it apart."

Phil turned slowly. He held out his hands to show he was…well, not unarmed, but not holding any weapons.

He heard a snort. “I’m not going to shoot you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Well, it _hadn’t_ been, but now—

 _Oh_.

Phil didn’t much have a type, physically. At this point in his life, anyone with a good sense of humor and a tolerance of the insane demands of his job was his type. But what type he did have was mostly in the eyes, and these eyes were _killer_ —greenish blue and sparkling with unconcealed amusement, offset by tiny crinkles. The head the eyes came with wasn’t half bad, either, with short, spiky, dark blond hair over a face that was broad and weathered, but gentle, like he’d seen a hard life but had finally settled down. A face like that could be a dangerous distraction on a mission like this.

Phil lowered his hands and reminded himself the guy probably expected a response. “Just trying to figure out what it plays.”

"Find out at the demo."

Phil gestured at the piano. “This is yours?”

The guy beamed proudly, closing the panels Phil had opened and running his fingers over the smooth surface the way Phil ran his over Lola. “Clint Barton,” the guy said, sticking out his hand. It was…a really nice hand. Broad and strong, with prominent veins along the back and long, thick fingers that probably worked magic inside the piano’s delicate machinery. “Barton Player Piano Company.”

Phil shook, and, yeah, damn, he would welcome that grip on any part of his body Clint cared to apply it to. “Paul Colby,” he said. “Entertainment Investors International.”

Clint straightened and threw Phil a wink. “Potential investor, right? One of the guys I’m _really_ supposed to impress tonight.”

"How about a private concert, then?" Phil leaned his elbow on the piano top, and oh, no. Was he flirting? Crap. He was flirting. Thank god Hill was backing him on this op. She would laugh for a few days and then move on to someone else’s pain. Sitwell would’ve mocked him for _weeks_.

Clint chuckled and swiped at the closed front of the piano, wiping away a speck of dust that probably wasn’t there. “Every hour at quarter past,” he said. But he slid over, making room for Phil on the piano bench.

Phil considered his mission parameters. He considered it unlikely that a player piano enthusiast was in league with the gangster-wannabe gun-runners he was tracking tonight, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on him, right? Phil drummed his fingers on the top of the piano to distract attention from his other hand attaching his surveillance device to the underside of the lid where it overhung the chamber (whoever suggested the device go inside the belly clearly hadn’t considered how _loud_ that would be). Then he settled beside Clint on the bench, but with his back to the piano so he could keep an eye on the crowd. “How’s a guy get into the player piano business?”

Phil expected another crack about the demo at quarter past, but Clint laughed, a low, clear sound that sparked down Phil’s spine, and answered, “Grew up in a circus. Broke a leg and got sidelined from my archery act for a while. Had the choice between cleaning animal cages and maintaining player pianos. Seemed like a no-brainer.”

Phil chuckled and nodded. They chatted about life in the circus until Clint shifted and said, “I need to be getting ready for the demo.”

Phil looked at his watch; it was five past 8, and party guests had begun drifting nearer in anticipation of the demo. It surprised Phil a little; a talk on the history and operation of player pianos seemed paltry fare compared to the champagne fountains and thousand-dollar-minimum poker games this party also boasted. Then again, since 99 percent of the people hanging around them were elegant women with calculating looks in their eyes, the appeal might not be the piano, after all.

Phil switched his gaze back to the crowd at large—and cursed. Raising his hand to his mouth, he turned toward the wall, feigning interest in the framed photos of Prohibition-era underworld figures. “Straight Pin to Base. Do you copy?”

"Go ahead Straight Pin," Hill answered instantly.

"Five new arrivals. Likely ATF." Hill swore creatively over the comm, and Phil silently agreed. Some of the guns for sale tonight were rumored to have very advanced technology—so advanced that extraterrestrial origin seemed likely. ATF was good at what it did, but alien tech was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bailiwick. Phil _had_ to get his hands on those weapons.

Phil turned to find Clint running his fingers over the keys, watching him with idle curiosity. He raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

Phil scanned the crowd again. The ATF agents were headed for the back of the room, toward the door Phil to the room where any arms deals would be transpiring. Phil cursed quietly. ATF didn’t care abut the buyers; they wanted the sellers and the weapons. Damned short-sighted, in his opinion. “Listen,” he told Clint, “I have to go for a couple minutes.”

The eyebrow lifted higher. “All that hanging around, and you’re gonna ditch five minutes before the demo? I’m hurt, Paul.”

"I know," Phil said. His fingers twitched toward the gun under his jacket, hating not knowing what was coming next, not being ready. "Just—stay safe, okay?"

Clint reared back, blinking. “Yeah, okay, I—you’re making me _really_ nervous.”

"Sorry," Phil said tightly. He wanted to say more, but there wasn’t more he could say without compromising his mission. He turned on his heel and strode as quickly as he dared toward the back room.

And turned around mere seconds later as the door slammed open and the ATF agents raced toward him backward, firing at the gun runners chasing them out. Amid the cacophony of stomping and shrieking as the guests fled, Phil threw himself behind the piano, a gun in each hand, Paul Colby persona dropped like a shed skin. “Straight Pin to Base,” he said, eyes on the rapidly advancing fire-fight. “Target under fire.”

"We hear it, Straight Pin," Hill said. "The Cavalry is on her way."

Phil had just sent a bullet whizzing past the ear of a gun-runner taking aim at an ATF agent when something heavy dropped to the floor beside him. “I know you have another gun,” Clint shouted. Phil looked over to see him make a “gimme” motion with his left hand. Phil strafed a baddie in the arm and gave Clint a doubting look. “World’s Greatest Marksman, remember?”

"With a _bow_!” Phil protested.

"Give me a damn gun, Paul."

Phil calculated rapidly. The fight was almost to them. May was on her way, but she might not make it on time. With the guests gone, the only targets were bad guys and heavily armored agents. Clint couldn’t hurt anyone, and he might keep the gun-runners distracted. Phil tossed over his Sig and pulled the Walther from its ankle holster. He looked up in time to see one of the gun-runners drop her weapon and double over, clutching her hand and screaming in agony. “Huh,” Phil said. He didn’t have to look to know Clint was smirking.

By the time May showed up, Phil, Clint, and the ATF had the gun-runners mostly under control. May subdued the rest in under a minute, and it was all over but the cleanup. As the haze cleared and the ringing receded from Phil’s ears, he crossed to the piano bench and settled beside a delighted-looking Clint. “You’re entirely too chipper for just having been through a fire-fight.” Phil was probably still shouting, but Clint didn’t seem to mind.

“No bullet holes in me or the piano,” he said. “It’s a win as far as I’m concerned.”

Phil watched S.H.I.E.L.D. retrieval specialists bring the first crate of weapons from the back room and immediately get into a jurisdictional pissing match with the ATF. “It’s a win as far as we’re concerned, too,” he said.

"Yeah?" Clint bumped his shoulder. "Who’s ‘we’?"

"Sorry," Phil said again, feeling guiltier than before. "Classified." Clint shrugged like he’d expected that. Phil narrowed his eyes. "How did your hearing recover so fast?" he demanded. Phil felt like he was still hearing everything underwater; Clint seemed to be having no problem.

"Hearing aids." Clint tapped his ear, and Phil felt like an unobservant nitwit for missing them. "Turned ‘em off the instant the shooting started. Turned ‘em back on when your scary friend over there signaled all-clear. It’s like those big booms never happened."

Phil snorted and shook his head. His scary friend walked past, gesturing that they were done and Phil should follow her back to base. He nodded and stood. “Thank you for your help this evening, Mr. Barton. I’m sorry I doubted your abilities with a firearm. And disrupted your evening.”

Clint shrugged, following Phil to his feet. “Almost everyone doubts my abilities with firearms,” he said. “And this was way more interesting than my normal evenings.” Phil supposed he couldn’t argue with that. It’d been a long time since he had a functional yardstick for “interesting” versus “normal.” Clint searched Phil’s face with his marksman’s gaze, and Phil held as still as he could, although the scrutiny stirred flocks of butterflies in his gut—and lower. “Listen, I don’t even know where you’re based out of,” Clint said, “but if you’re ever interested, I’d love to grab a cup of coffee, let you not-talk about top-secret spy stuff.”

Phil laughed, equal parts startled and amused. Clint smiled back, a smaller, more private smile than before, and Phil could feel, in the sudden dryness of his mouth, how much trouble that smile and the man attached could be for him. God, but he’d _missed_ that kind of trouble. “I’d like that.”

"Yeah? Great!" The dangerous smile turned into something brighter and more bearable as Clint wrestled his wallet from the back pocket of his devastatingly tight black jeans and yanked out a business card. "That’s the shop number, but I live upstairs, so call or come by anytime."

Phil glanced at the card and saw that the address listed was on Long Island, which was—well, actually, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure _where_ he expected a player piano business to be. He slid the card into his jacket pocket and smiled at Clint—his own smile, now, not Paul Colby’s. “Maybe I’ll finally get that private concert.”

Clint’s answering smile was wicked, and he was _very_ far into Phil’s space as he murmured, “Every hour at quarter past.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the photo at the top of the page and originally posted [here](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/94441134604/hugealienpie-people-peeeeeople-i-dont-know).


	4. Brian/Bender: Photo Op

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because I look like a grown-up doesn't mean I have to act like one.

The picture ends up in the Illinois General Assembly official twitter feed after the holiday to-do, and Allison calls not ten minutes later. “You cut your hair!” she shrieks.

"Uh, yeah," John says. "Like, two years ago."

"And you didn’t _tell me_?!?”

John rolls his eyes so hard his head hurts. “You did not want to know about my haircut. Shut up.”

"Maybe I did," she counters. "God, John, you look so grown-up."

"Well, I’m almost fifty, and my husband’s a state legislator. I fucking _better_ look grown-up.”

They chat a few minutes more, and he’s just hung up when Claire texts.

**Clairestan:** _Nice haircut. But ffs shave. And the glasses make you look like an asshole._

John actually agrees about his need to shave, but the bus broke down on the way back from the camping trip, and he’d had to go straight from the office to the party, changing in a bathroom into the suit Brian brought for him when he arrived. But he takes offense at the glasses.

**Me:** _fuck you princess my old man eyes need them to read_

**Clairestan:** _You read?_

He considers telling her off again, but instead hunts down the dog-eared Molière collection Brian got him as a joke some twenty years ago.

**Me:** _Le monde, chère Claire, est une étrange chose._

Unsurprisingly, Claire has no response for this.

Andrew’s only judgment is liking the picture when one of John’s interns posts it on the YouthWorks Facebook page. Which is why, of the ones who don’t suck John’s dick on a regular basis, Andrew is his favorite.

When John gets back to the office after lunch with Essie the next day, Gabe, the other intern, stops spinning in his chair long enough to say, “Some douchebarge put some nasty comments on that new picture Tamani put up of you. How you weren’t good for nothing and how he couldn’t believe anybody actually let you into the Capitol.” Gabe huffs. “Which is totally stupid, because, that’s, like, _the people’s building_.”

"Would that douchebarge’s name happen to be Dick Vernon?"

"Yeah," Gabe says, "that’s the asshole."

John grins. “Jesus, how is that man not a hundred years old? And he’s on Facebook, of course he is. Okay, delete his comments, block him from the page, and flag him for the Facebook abuse team. That should do it.” He’s whistling as he heads to his office to call Brian. Not a bad start to an old guy’s afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a then-and-now _Breakfast Club_ cast photoset; part of the [Lysistrata 'verse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1699259); and originally posted [here](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/95291309701/the-breakfast-club-cast-then-and-now-so-many) (follow the link to see the photos).


	5. Mahealahey: Seven Days (and Saturday Night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing lasts forever, but you make me wanna try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Skaboom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaboom), who requested Mahealahey fic based on the lyric in the chapter summary (from "Oh Love" by William Beckett). Originally posted [here](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/98861409244/seven-days-and-saturday-night).

Monday morning, Danny picks an Indian paintbrush on his way into school and slips it into Isaac’s locker. When he comes back to his own locker before lunch, the flower’s lying trampled on the ground. _Ouch._

Tuesday at lunch, Danny drops a Kit Kat on Isaac’s tray while he’s not looking. He walks into his first class after lunch and watches Stiles stuff an entire piece of a Kit Kat into his mouth sideways. Danny doubts that’s a coincidence.

Danny’s never worked so hard to land a guy. Turns out he likes the challenge. And Isaac’s worth it.

Wednesday’s Wolverine bookmark, tucked between the pages of Isaac’s trig book, appears, carefully folded, in Mrs. Shang’s recycling bin. Isaac does plug Thursday’s USB drive into his computer, but since he’s frantically typing a paper for American History and not wearing headphones, Danny figures the Missouri Compromise has overwritten the songs he put on the drive.

On Friday, Danny takes a small square of card stock, copies out Mishima Yukio’s “Death Poem,” a lifelong favorite (he leaves off the title), and slips it into Isaac’s jacket pocket during lacrosse practice. After practice ends, he sees Isaac standing next to Derek’s mom-mobile (probably better not to ask why Derek’s there). Isaac catches Danny’s eye, pulls the paper from his pocket, and drops it onto the ground.

Danny’s not taking any more of this crap.

He burns a _lot_ of best friend credits and his entire lunch period wheedling Derek into loaning him the car. When Isaac climbs in at the end of the day and sees Danny behind the wheel, he tries to bolt. Danny’s faster on the auto-lock, so Isaac’s only way out is to break the door. “What the hell, man?” Isaac hisses.

“I was about to ask you that,” Danny says. He turns so his back’s against the driver’s side door. Isaac’s stronger and faster and literally able to tear him apart with his hands and teeth, but Danny has patience in quantities Isaac can only dream of. “Saturday you kissed me. Sunday you blocked my calls and ignored my texts. This week you destroyed my gifts. If you’re not into me, _say so_. I’m a big boy. I can take it. Just be nicer to Mishima, okay?”

Isaac snorts and stares out the windshield. His body is one long line of tension. “It’s not—I’m not… _un_ interested.”

“You sure know how to stroke a guy’s ego.”

Isaac gives a frustrated growl and tugs his hair. “Danny. I’m trying to…I’m _trying_ , okay? I don’t _do_ relationships anymore. They hurt too much.”

"They don’t have to—"

"My _entire family_ is dead, Danny, do you get that? The betas I was turned with are either dead or across the ocean—and by the way I saw Jackson when I was in Europe, and it was _not_ a touching reunion. Derek didn’t tell me he was leaving Beacon Hills until he’d crossed the Nevada line. Allison’s dead. Aiden’s dead, and Ethan skipped town. How many times do I have to do this before you’ll let me say _enough_?”

If Danny were a different person, he would comfort Isaac after that outburst. Because he definitely has a point. But though Danny’s luck’s been far better than Isaac’s, he’s still learned things about surviving Beacon Hills. “Yeah, this place sucks.” Isaac blinks at him, startled. “I don’t know why you came back. But you did, so now you have to ask yourself what you’re going to do. You could leave again. Nobody’d blame you. You could keep kissing guys and running away because the thought of losing anyone else is too damned scary—”

"It _is_ , Danny, would you stop being an asshole?”

Danny shrugs. “Unavoidable hazard. My best friend is dating Stiles.” That gets a snigger out of Isaac. “ _Or_ ,” Danny continues, spearing Isaac with a hard glare, “you can acknowledge that relationships end. People leave, people die. Doesn’t hurt less if you’re 80 than if you’re 18. So you have to grab whatever happiness you can while you have the chance.”

"You sound like a bad PSA.” Isaac sounds like he’s fighting giggles.

"I’m a coder, not a fighter."

"Oh my _god_.” A laugh explodes out of Isaac. “How have you had so many boyfriends?”

Danny shrugs. “I hook up with a guy, and if he’s still there in the morning we try dating. I’ve never done it this way around.”

Isaac rolls his eyes and stares outside for another minute. The parking lot’s almost empty. “Grab whatever happiness I can?”

"Yeah."

"It was a good kiss."

"I can do better. You surprised me."

"Okay." Isaac looks around the car like he’s hoping Derek’s essence will give his approval. Maybe it does. Werewolves are _weird_. Then he nods. “We’ll try it. No promises, but we’ll try it. Tomorrow night, 8:00. Drive your own car.” He opens the door and gets out; Danny knows from the twitchy glances he’s giving the road that he wants to run to the McCall house. Then he pauses, leaning down to stare at Danny. Danny can’t read his expression, but he has a feeling it’s not _good_. “And, Danny? Don’t leave.”

Danny shakes his head. “No promises.”

Isaac’s expression clears. He smiles and taps the roof of the car. “Yeah,” he says, “no promises.” Then he’s off, racing toward home.

So Isaac’s not willing to think about forever (and let’s be honest; they’re 18; Danny’s not sure he’s willing, either). But he’s willing to think about _for now_ , and for now Danny thinks they could be great together. If they are, maybe they’ll have time for everything else.


	6. Derrish: Ghost Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ghost town" is _supposed_ to be a figure of speech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extended version of an askbox fic I wrote for [skaboom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaboom/pseuds/Skaboom)
> 
> The ghost town is called Babylon because [_Carnivàle_](http://carnivale.wikia.com/wiki/Babylon).

"'Ghost town' is supposed to be a figure of speech!" Jordan yells as he races up the dusty street. 

How can Derek _shrug_ while fleeing angry, wailing ghosts? "Like 'things that go bump in the night'?" he grits out, dodging a too-close spectral hand.

"I do _not_ go bump in the night!" Jordan wants to glare, but he's busy running for his life.

"You went to the bathroom at one and walked into the dresser," Derek counters. 

"You got night vision; I got healing tears. Deal." Noting a sudden absence of pursuers, Jordan skids to a halt. "Hey, where are they?" 

Derek waves at the "Welcome to Babylon" sign, which they've just passed. "Can't cross the town line." 

Sure enough, a half-dozen ghosts throw themselves at an invisible barrier that seems to emanate from the sign, clawing and shrieking futilely. "What do we do 'til they're gone?" If Lydia's information is correct, the ghosts will dissipate at sunrise.

Derek grins sharply and backs Jordan against a tree, hands strong at Jordan's hips, breath hot against his lips. "We'll think of something."


	7. Stanny: World Series Champion (and Master Plumber) Stiles Stilinski

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Giants win the World Series. Stiles reacts with his usual grace and restraint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGEALIENPIE: The San Francisco Giants have won the World Series. Stiles will be insufferable for the next few weeks. Danny will roll his eyes fondly. Yogi will be unimpressed and demand to know who’s taking her for a walk.  
> THE WORDBUTLER: I think this demands a ficlet…..  
> 
> 
> In case you couldn't guess, this is in my ["The Old Ball Game"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/134010) universe, in which Stiles, among other things, is a catcher for the San Francisco Giants.
> 
> IRL, players receive World Series championship rings at the start of the following season. In HAP’s Magical Ficland, they receive them within a month of the Series’ end.

"Yeah, I heard about that concert," Stiles is telling Kira, "but I didn't get to go. I was busy that night. Winning the World Series."

"Oh my god," Isaac groans, dropping next to Danny on the couch, "your boyfriend is unbearable."

"Fiancé," Danny corrects mildly. He grunts as Luke tries to jump onto Isaac's lap and somehow ends up on Danny’s, instead. "And he's restraining himself. Be grateful."

"This is restraint?"

"The Friday after the Series ended, he took John, Melissa, and me to dinner to celebrate. The reservation was under 'World Series champion Stiles Stilinski.'"

Isaac laughs so loudly he draws Allison, who comes over to make sure he’s okay, and Yogi, who seems determined to get food out of this interaction somehow.

Danny pokes Isaac in the ribs. “Don't tell me you’d be any better, in his place.”

"Nope," Allison says, "he'd be worse." Ignoring Isaac's indignant protests, she shoves at his arm until he lifts it enough for her to curl up against his side. Then she gasps and leans closer to Danny. "Danny, what happened to your face?"

Danny's hand flies up. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What's wrong?” His fingers connect with a sore spot, and Allison and Isaac wince. Then Danny remembers: between the Series and their awkward-as-always Samhain celebration with Marin and Deaton, they haven't seen the pack since the last full moon. He rolls his eyes. “You've seen Stiles sleep, right?”

"There are modern dance troupes that move less," Allison says.

"And you've seen his championship ring."

"Only every five minutes since you got here," Isaac scoffs. His eyes widen. "He wears it when he  _sleeps_?”

"Once," Danny says firmly. "The first night he had it." He touches the fading bruise again. "Never again."

"Hey, Danny!" Scott calls. Danny looks across the room to where Scott has Stiles into a headlock. "What's it like being engaged to a World Series champion?"

"Shut  _up_!” Stiles growls as he struggles futilely against Scott’s alpha strength.

Danny laughs. “Oh, I’m not in it for the fame, Scott. To me he’s just my Stiles, that loveable asshole who won’t call a plumber.”

"Dude!" Stiles says. "I can fix the garbage disposal."

"Stiles, no!" gasps the entire pack, horrified.

Stiles flips them off, not actually with his middle finger but with the finger bearing his championship ring. Every eye in the place rolls. Even the dogs’.


	8. Stanny: If It's a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this is a dream, Danny doesn't want to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one for skaboom, based on some lyrics she posted. This one's a sniffler, folks; give it a miss if you prefer your characters 100%, unambiguously alive.

"Stiles?" Danny rubs his eyes, but the image in front of him doesn’t change. "Jesus, Stiles. You look—" 

He looks _perfect_ , is what he looks. He’s wearing that same stupid “I’m not gay, but my boyfriend is” t-shirt, with no trace of the slash marks across his chest that Danny last saw him with. His hair’s that length that he always thought was too long but that Danny secretly loves. And his eyes, god, were they always that bright? They’re _glowing_.

Danny falls into Stiles’ waiting arms. “I miss you so much,” he says, voice muffled against Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m trying to hold it together, but your dad is really scaring me. And Scott’s pushing so hard about the eulogy, but—I _can’t_ , Stiles. I can’t.”

"Shhh. I know," Stiles murmurs. His hands rub across Danny’s arms and back, and he ghosts kisses over Danny’s head and the side of his face. "I know, and I’m _so sorry_. God, it wasn’t supposed to go like this. Derek’s plan seemed sound for once, and he—"

" _Don’t_ talk to me about Derek," Danny snaps. 

"This isn’t his fault," Stiles insists. "You know that, right?" His eyes widen. "Oh, shit, Danny-boy, tell me you know that. You’re his best friend. If you can’t forgive him—"

"I don’t know." Danny tightens his grip on Stiles and nuzzles his neck. "Someday. Maybe. Not today. I don’t want to talk about it."

He feels Stiles’ laugh more than hears it. “Okay,” Stiles says. “What do you want to talk about?”

"I don’t," Danny says. "Can we just—what is this? Am I dreaming or having some grief-induced hallucination? Or are you really here? Are you a ghost?"

"I don’t know," Stiles admits. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it _matters_ , Stiles. We’ve brought people back. This town does that kind of thing to people. If you’re here somewhere, I can—we can figure it out. We can bring you back."

"Okay," Stiles says gently. He leans in and kisses Danny, slow and sweet. "God, I love how hard you’re willing to fight for us. But not now, okay? You haven’t been sleeping, and you need to, for whatever’s coming next."

Danny wants to protest. He wants to shout himself awake and start working _this instant_. A chance to bring Stiles back—how can he delay for a moment? But Stiles is right: he’s no good to anyone on the scant sleep he’s gotten for the past two days. “Okay,” he says grudgingly. “I won’t try to wake up, if you’ll keep holding me.”

Stiles’ arms tighten. “Always,” he whispers, and Danny believes him.


	9. Danny & Derek: The Neutral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like you because you hate everyone as much as I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could look at this as a timestamp for [That the Older Should Regress](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2060724/chapters/4478580), if you choose. Originally posted [here on tumblr](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/post/110721097000/the-neutral).

Kevin was a fairly good dancer and a really good kisser, and Danny was two minutes away from finding out what else he was good at when he stiffened in Danny’s arms. And not in the good way.

Danny didn’t even look. He dropped his head into the crook of Kevin’s neck and groaned, "Damn it, Derek, we talked about this."

The sound of frantic scrambling came from the bed, headed toward the window. "I didn't—I'm going. Right now."

"Wait, stop." Danny held up his hand. The scrambling stopped. Still not looking, he pointed first at the bed and then down the hall. "You. Guest room." He pulled away from Kevin just enough to push him toward the bed. "You. Wait there. Be sexy."

Derek vanished with his usual silence, speed, and grace, leaving Danny and Kevin alone in an awkward moment. "Look,” Kevin said waspishly, though he was already halfway to the bed, "it's great if you and your boyfriend have an open relationship, but—"

" _Not_ my boyfriend," Danny said, hunting through his dresser for that one t-shirt and pair of sweatpants that halfway fit Derek. “A friend. A very good friend with a very bad concept of boundaries.” Out in the hall came a soft thud that sounded like the back of an alpha werewolf’s stupid thick skull hitting a wall. “Who’s supposed to be in the guest room.” Shirt and pants in hand, Danny returned to the bed, kissed Kevin hard, and said, “Be right back. I promise.”

In the guest room at the end of the hall, Derek sat in the dark, illuminated only by the half moon. He’d turned his scowl down a notch, which was the closest he came to looking apologetic. Danny chucked the clothes at his chest, and even in the dim light he caught them effortlessly, the show-off. Danny leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms, not bothering to turn away as Derek stripped out of his super-tight jeans. Danny had done his mourning for the fact that Derek was _the_ hottest person who he felt no attraction to whatsoever, and now being around naked Derek was no different from being around any other guy in the locker room. “Trouble in Paradise?” Danny asked.

Derek scowled as he pulled on the sweatpants. “The betas wouldn’t stop complaining about Scott’s pack. Beacon Hills is too small for two packs that can’t even pretend to get along. So I went to ask Stiles about the research he’s doing on the kanima, and he just wanted to complain about my betas.”

Danny frowned. “That’s an extra dick move, even for him. I can try talking to him, if you want. Can’t promise he’ll listen . . .”

"No. I like that you’re neutral ground. No one thinks of you in connection with me." Derek grinned slyly. "Stiles would listen to you if you asked him out like I keep telling you to—"

"Whoa, no." Danny pointed at Derek. "What’s the rule? We don’t talk about my thing for Stiles _while I have another guy in my room_."

Derek’s forehead crinkled. “Since when is that a rule?”

"Since now. Get some sleep. If anybody comes looking for you, I won’t tell them you’re here."

"Nobody will," Derek said confidently as he slipped into the bed. "That’s one of the reasons I come here."

"Yeah, yeah, I’m your secret bit on the side, I know how it is." Danny smiled to make sure Derek knew it didn’t bother him that no one knew they were friends. It was fun, watching both packs struggle not to talk about anything supernatural around him, none of them knowing that Derek came here two or three nights of every week to hide from them and their disintegrating pack diplomacy. "Good night, Derek."

"Night, Danny. Sorry about your date."

Danny shrugged. “If he’s still there, he’s still there. If not, his loss. Next time, I’ll hang a tie on the door.”

"In the window would be better," Derek admitted sheepishly.

"God, you’re a weirdo."

"You’re friends with me. What’s that say about you?"

And that, Danny thought as he closed the guest room door behind him, bracing himself to see what he could salvage of his date, was the question of the ages.

**Author's Note:**

> Behold [all this strange tumbling](http://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/).


End file.
